"Cast me upon some naked shore,Where I may traceOnly the print of some sad wrack,If thou be there, though the seas roare,I shall no gentler calm implore."
HABINGTON.
He was gone. The house was shut up for the evening. No more deepblue skies or crimson and amber tints. Margaret went up to dress for theearly tea, finding Dixon in a pretty temper from the interruption which avisitor had naturally occasioned on a busy day. She showed it bybrushing away viciously at Margaret"s hair, under pretence of being in agreat hurry to go to Mrs. Hale. Yet, after all, Margaret had to wait along time in the drawing-room before her mother came down. She satby herself at the fire, with unlighted candles on the table behind her,thinking over the day, the happy walk, happy sketching, cheerfulpleasant dinner, and the uncomfortable, miserable walk in the garden.
How different men were to women! Here was she disturbed andunhappy, because her instinct had made anything but a refusalimpossible; while he, not many minutes after he had met with arejection of what ought to have been the deepest, holiest proposal of hislife, could speak as if briefs, success, and all its superficialconsequences of a good house, clever and agreeable society, were thesole avowed objects of his desires. Oh dear! how she could have lovedhim if he had but been different, with a difference which she felt, onreflection, to be one that went low--deep down. Then she took it intoher head that, after all, his lightness might be but assumed, to cover abitterness of disappointment which would have been stamped on herown heart if she had loved and been rejected.
Her mother came into the room before this whirl of thoughts wasadjusted into anything like order. Margaret had to shake off therecollections of what had been done and said through the day, and turna sympathising listener to the account of how Dixon had complainedthat the ironing-blanket had been burnt again; and how Susan Lightfoothad been seen with artificial flowers in her bonnet, thereby givingevidence of a vain and giddy character. Mr. Hale sipped his tea inabstracted silence; Margaret had the responses all to herself. Shewondered how her father and mother could be so forgetful, soregardless of their companion through the day, as never to mention hisname. She forgot that he had not made them an offer.
After tea Mr. Hale got up, and stood with his elbow on the chimney-piece, leaning his head on his hand, musing over something, and fromtime to time sighing deeply. Mrs. Hale went out to consult with Dixonabout some winter clothing for the poor. Margaret was preparing hermother"s worsted work, and rather shrinking from the thought of thelong evening, and wishing bed-time were come that she might go overthe events of the day again.
"Margaret!" said Mr. Hale, at last, in a sort of sudden desperate way, thatmade her start. "Is that tapestry thing of immediate consequence? Imean, can you leave it and come into my study? I want to speak to youabout something very serious to us all."
"Very serious to us all." Mr. Lennox had never had the opportunity ofhaving any private conversation with her father after her refusal, or elsethat would indeed be a very serious affair. In the first place, Margaretfelt guilty and ashamed of having grown so much into a woman as to bethought of in marriage; and secondly, she did not know if her fathermight not be displeased that she had taken upon herself to decline Mr.
Lennox"s proposal. But she soon felt it was not about anything, whichhaving only lately and suddenly occurred, could have given rise to anycomplicated thoughts, that her father wished to speak to her. He madeher take a chair by him; he stirred the fire, snuffed the candles, andsighed once or twice before he could make up his mind to say--and itcame out with a jerk after all--"Margaret! I am going to leave Helstone."
"Leave Helstone, papa! But why?"
Mr. Hale did not answer for a minute or two. He played with somepapers on the table in a nervous and confused manner, opening his lipsto speak several times, but closing them again without having thecourage to utter a word. Margaret could not bear the sight of thesuspense, which was even more distressing to her father than to herself.
"But why, dear papa? Do tell me!"
He looked up at her suddenly, and then said with a slow and enforcedcalmness:
"Because I must no longer be a minister in the Church of England."
Margaret had imagined nothing less than that some of the prefermentswhich her mother so much desired had befallen her father at last-somethingthat would force him to leave beautiful, beloved Helstone,and perhaps compel him to go and live in some of the stately and silentCloses which Margaret had seen from time to time in cathedral towns.
They were grand and imposing places, but if, to go there, it wasnecessary to leave Helstone as a home for ever, that would have been asad, long, lingering pain. But nothing to the shock she received fromMr. Hale"s last speech. What could he mean? It was all the worse forbeing so mysterious. The aspect of piteous distress on his face, almostas imploring a merciful and kind judgment from his child, gave her asudden sickening. Could he have become implicated in anythingFrederick had done? Frederick was an outlaw. Had her father, out of anatural love for his son, connived at any-"
Oh! what is it? do speak, papa! tell me all! Why can you no longer be aclergyman? Surely, if the bishop were told all we know aboutFrederick, and the hard, unjust--"
"It is nothing about Frederick; the bishop would have nothing to do withthat. It is all myself. Margaret, I will tell you about it. I will answer anyquestions this once, but after to-night let us never speak of it again. Ican meet the consequences of my painful, miserable doubts; but it is aneffort beyond me to speak of what has caused me so much suffering."
"Doubts, papa! Doubts as to religion?" asked Margaret, more shockedthan ever.
"No! not doubts as to religion; not the slightest injury to that."
He paused. Margaret sighed, as if standing on the verge of some newhorror. He began again, speaking rapidly, as if to get over a set task: